


The Big Sucks

by 221b_hound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, cheer-up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's day has sucked the big one. Sherlock decides to cheer him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Big Sucks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).



> This fic happened because I lost my job (contract wasn't renewed) and a few other things went wrong. The whole week sucked and I was feeling very low. I whined about it on my LJ. As part of the cheering up process, two fics happened. One I wrote because dear atlinmerrick said "in the meantime write those dozen Sherlock fics to make yourself smile. One of the stories can be called The Big Sucks. I'm sure you can imagine what the subject could be..."
> 
> And so I wrote a story called The Big Sucks directly into the reply field. It's smutty Johnlock, in case you didn't guess.
> 
> Darling Atlin then wrote a brilliant, sexy, funny fic straight into the comments field of my second misery post. [Read it on my LJ. ](http://221b-hound.livejournal.com/68011.html)It contains John Drawing A Line, which Sherlock ignores, and... well, I won't say. You'll have to read the goodness for yourself.

Sherlock was difficult to live with sometimes, and sometimes he was just... puzzling.  
  
"Are... you all right down there?" John raised an eyebrow at his ( _gorgeous, delicious, sexy, Christ stop that John, before you screw your friendship up as well, you know he's not interested_ ) flatmate, kneeling on the floor beside the sofa where John sat, feeling dejected.  
  
"Never better," Sherlock assured him, shuffling closer.  
  
"And you are... doing what precisely?"  
  
"Cheering you up."  
  
"I..." John blinked, decided not to bother asking Sherlock how he knew cheering up was required, and blinked again.  
  
Sherlock read the question anyway. "You had an exceptionally bad day at the clinic. Dull patients with boring diseases; apart from the one you suspect has a terminal illness, which you found distressing. Another - not a child - was sick on you. Sarah has given you yet another warning about having too much time off, and you fear another lapse will see you unemployed." Sherlock edged a little closer, until his chest was almost touching John's knees.  
  
"Well, yes..." Quite unconciously, John's knees drifted apart. Sherlock took the opportunity to shuffle closer.  
  
"Your day, in the vernacular, sucked." Sherlock's gaze did not leave John's face, and the way he pursed his lips on that last word was strangely suggestive.  
  
John sighed. ( _Stop it, stop it, stop it, John, that's not what he meant_.) "Yes. Yes, it did."  
  
"Add to this the fact that you have not had a date in three months. You seem to have given up on dating altogether..."  
  
John's eyebrow raised anew, with the distinct subtitle 'and whose fault it that?' but Sherlock went on, "And your libido is suffering in consequence. However, in view of your increasing attachment to me, that component of your terrible day can at least be dealt with."  
  
Then Sherlock let his gaze drift meaningfully down, from John's eyes, to his throat, down his chest to his hands resting on his thighs, bracketing his... well, how about that. Bracketing his _erection_.  
  
John swallowed, and tried to make his eyebrow come down, but it wouldn't budge. In fact, its partner decided to join the first, high up on John's forehead.  
  
Sherlock looked up at him, ocean eyes wide and steady. "And in view of my increasing attachment to you, I am more than willing to remedy the situation."  
  
That sounded a bit clinical, even to Sherlock, so he wound up with: "I am of course speaking of a permanent remedy; for you and I to become lovers, given our mutual attraction and mutual deep regard. I realise I have not been encouraging in this regard, but it has come to my attention that my efforts to avoid emotional entanglement have failed spectacularly. I dream of you, John, even when I am not asleep. And I discover that I cannot bear to see you sad."  
  
There was a long pause, during whch John struggled to discover which of the six thousand things he was thinking he should say first, and Sherlock - with unexpected patience - allowed him the time to choose.  
  
"We haven't even kissed," was the protest John settled on.  
  
Hands steadied on John's knees, Sherlock leaned up... and John, as though subject to a very localised gravity, leaned down... mouths met. Soft. Yielding. A little curious, and then suddenly very demanding.  
  
John's hands curled through Sherlock's hair, cupped his face, drew him up and Sherlock's hands, well they slid up John's thighs to his waist, then around it, and they pressed together, those two men, lips and tongues, fingertips and skin, breath and sighs. Their mouths parted long enough for Sherlock to kiss a delicate trail to John's ear and whisper: "Now we've kissed. Let me, John. Let me."  
  
John held Sherlock's face gently, kissed himm, and again, and more. "You don't have to."  
  
"Idiot," said Sherlock fondly, "Didn't I just say I want to? I want to, John. I've wanted to for so long. Please let me." He drew back to give John a mock-stern look. "If you're worried about reciprocity, please believe me, I am as keen for you to do the same for me." He faltered slightly. "If that's what you..."  
  
John's answer was a kind of throaty growl and the movement of his hands to clasp Sherlock's backside and knead it wantonly. You didn't have to be a consulting detective to interpret that correctly.  
  
Thus assured, Sherlock, with a wicked smile, kissed John's mouth and throat while his hands busied themselves with buttons and zips. John lifted his hips to allow Sherlock to shift fabric and then kiss a new trail, over chest and stomach, across thighs and then wet heat enveloped the previously remarked erection, a busy tongue and a clever mouth became employed in clever things that were not words, and from John came a litany of imprecation and exquisite blasphemies - and the day was suddenly sucking in a whole new and much, much, much better way.  
  
And reciprocity was achieved soon after, but not before more kissing and more whispers and more prayerful swearing and the terrible day ended with two men, clothes askew, panting in each other's arms, wondering what on earth had taken them both so long.  
  
"Because we're idiots," John told Sherlock at last, even though neither had asked the question out loud.  
  
"You're my favourite idiot, though," said Sherlock.  
  
"I love you too," said John.


End file.
